Faint the hollow murmur rings
by MirrorShard
Summary: It is decided by one moody Valar that somebody has to keep a certain ranger with an unhealthy hang for suicide missions alive until he fulfills the destiny he's constantly running from. Unfortunately Carlie drew the short stick.
1. Part I

**AN: **'Faint the hollow murmur rings' is a collection of six one-shots and (for now) two interludes.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Lord of the Rings, any known characters or locations, etc.

* * *

_For Elena_

* * *

**Part I The First**

_You can't make a second first impression._

* * *

_Bree, around the year 3003 during the Third Age_

* * *

The first time I saw Aragorn I was dripping wet, covered from head to toe in flour and running for my life. It wasn't exactly how I imagined our first meeting would go but if nothing else I'm pretty sure I made quite an impression.

Still, I like to think that things would have turned out differently if I had known of his true heritage back then. Because maybe if I had known that he _wasn't _just your usual every day ranger passing through the village but the last heir to the throne of Gondor, I _wouldn't_ have used him as a human shield against the deranged woman chasing me through the streets. Maybe I wouldn't have screamed like I was burned alive and clung to his legs with all the strength my small body could possess - ruining his clothes in the process - and desperately evading the grabbing hands of the flustered maid who tried to get my charming, hysterical self away from the suspicious-looking stranger. Well, he didn't _actually_ look suspicious, at least no more than any other traveller I had seen so far, but he wasn't familiar and for the _open-minded_ people of Bree that was suspicious enough, thank you very much.

Looking back now it was probably a good thing that I had no idea who he truly was because I might have embarrassed myself by going all crazy fan-girly on him. The poor guy wouldn't have stood a chance. Luckily he didn't have the faintest idea who I was either. In his eyes I was merely a child. An extremely loud, stubborn child with a surprisingly strong grip but still a child. Honestly, I wouldn't even begrudge him if he had simply pushed me away and moved on but he didn't for whatever reason I'll probably never understand. I'm also pretty sure I saw his lips twitch once or twice but I was busy avoiding my inevitable capture by the nursemaid for as long as possible - because while he didn't shake me off he certainly didn't make himself useful by killing that stupid maid either - so I might have imagined it.

Because he should have been annoyed at the very least. He was a ranger after all. I know many people - including me - have never been given lessons about stealth but let me tell you one thing: walking through a small village with a kicking and screaming girl hanging off your back and a panicking maid fluttering around you is _not_ the way to stay inconspicuous. Nope. Definitely not. Still, he bore it with as much dignity as possible, considering the situation.

The maid was one of the most useless ones I had ever had the misfortune to meet. She was afraid to come too close to the stranger - like he was contagious or something - and made it pretty easy for me to stay out of her reach, even though I was right in front of her. Which was absolutely pathetic on her part and gleefully hilarious on mine. Damn, I _really_ hated that woman.

So there we were: me refusing to let the unfamiliar man go, the maid too afraid to take me from him and the ranger staying pretty much motionless and allowing me to climb - more accurately _try_ and _fail_ to climb - on his back and what seemed like half the people of Bree watching the spectacle without so much as lifting a finger to help.

Already the day was starting to look up.

Of course then my mother showed up.

Now don't get me wrong, my mother is one of the most amazing women I've ever met. She's one of these truly selfless people, always kind and friendly to everyone. She also has a temper that makes Sauron's wraith look like an ugly puppet in a badly faked haunted house.

She showed no sign of fear of the ranger, contrary to all those ignorant idiots around me. Awesome woman that she is, she simply gave him a Look before she grabbed me by the forearms, taking care to touch me as little as possible. Considering I was covered in a white cloud of flour I couldn't even blame her. She set me down in front of her - again not too close - and gave me a Look too. It was a different Look than the one the ranger had received.

"What do you think you are doing, child?" she asked sharply. There were so many things conveyed with these eight words.

_What were you thinking, drawing attention like that?_ My mother hated attention. She hated it with such a passion it was bordering on being ridiculous. It wasn't shyness or her bashful nature that motivated her either but instead a paranoia so unfounded yet so powerful it possessed her body, mind and soul. To this day I will never understand the fear that has plagued her all her life. Sometimes I think she expected everyone she met to just look at her and scream "You are one of _them_!" as though she was the personification of a Nazgûl. Like most fears it was in all honesty a stupid one. Because let's face it: there was nothing extraordinary about our life in Bree. My parents had married young, my father being the heir to one of the wealthier families in this part of the country, which isn't saying much by the way, but around the town it gave him a fair amount of influence - enough to ensure that I could walk through the streets undisturbed even by the _shadier_ crowd. Though I assume my over-protective brother seldom leaving my side helped too. All in all there was nothing about our family that stood out too much, at least not on the outside. And since the only difference between _us_ and _them_ was inside our very minds they would and could never find out about it. There were no signs, no evidence, no indications of anything being amiss. There never would be. But somewhere along the years, as the lines between reality and dream blurred more and more, my mother had forgotten that fact. Even back then, in front of a stranger and confronted with my less than dignified appearance I could see that flicker of unjustified fear in her glazed eyes, could only watch as the shadow's hold on her soul grew with each passing day.

I didn't answer her question. Truthfully, there was no answer that would satisfy her, not when she was in _that_ mood again. So I kept quiet and blocked her scowling words out to the best of my ability. She grabbed my hand then, wanted to get me out of the public's eye as fast as possible. Usually I would have followed her without a fuss, knowing that complaining would only get me deeper in trouble. But as I turned around my gaze met the clear, grey eyes of the ranger and for a reason I still can't explain, I stayed.

_Now_ I know what that moment meant and how many years of my life it would define later on. Now I recognize the emotions that rushed through me as kinship and the sudden wish to care and protect, no matter the cost. Now, though I still lack the words to adequately describe my feelings, I _understand_. But back then I didn't.

As I stood there, motionless, in between my mother and a man I had never met before, time seemed to freeze. It was one of these moments every romantic movie tries to capture, although it wasn't romantic in any sense. But it was intense. There was something - not necessarily the man himself but the whole situation - that made me pause. Then a movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. For but a second I spotted a man-shaped shadow, clad in grey, before he melted back into the darkness like a nightmare in the face of the breaking dawn. With all the people around us - most did not even have the decency to pretend _not_ to stare - there was no reason for one of the villagers to stand out. But for one reason or another that figure, whoever he was, triggered my memory. He, however unintentional and most likely unwillingly, made me remember how exactly I had gotten myself into this mess. Because, believe it or not, I do not make a habit out of running around squealing in such a disgusting condition and I approach strangers even less. Seriously, I barely manage to talk with the people I've known all my life, never mind an outsider.

It was all Sage's fault, of course.

Not that he was aware of that little fact. And since I valued my continued health it was going to stay that way. Sage was a young man about twenty winters. He was also one of the shadiest and most violent guys I've ever had the displeasure to meet. Considering my unique luck that was really saying something. The only man who was worse than Sage were his friends who made their thickness up with sheer malice. In Bree they were known for their rowdy behavior and their ferocious dislike towards strangers.

I had been running across the busy streets like the panicked child I was - swearing that should I survive the wrath of our maid and worse _my parents_ my darling brother would pay for putting me into this mess - when I noticed _it_. Not the ranger, I had known he was in town for hours. It was all the people talked about and besides it was a _ranger_. I had always been fascinated with them and generally with every traveller, so there was no chance that I would miss his appearance. What had caused my rather spectacular show had actually been a very simple and very telling if silent exchange between Sage and his minions as they measured said ranger up. Nothing good ever happened to those who drew that kind of attention from his group.

Don't ask me why but I was determined to save the man. I had a plan.

To be fair I came up with said plan in the time it took me to cross the street and hug his knee's as tightly as I could. Which was easier said than done with him in mid-stride and everything. Than the maid spotted me and my survival instinct's kicked in. Cue the shrill screaming. And it all went downhill from there.

All these thoughts whirled through my mind as I stood there, still frozen in place between my mother and the stranger who looked at me curiously. Can't say I blame him.

Stage one had been drawing attention. And boy, had I accomplished that. Mother was going to skin me alive but it was totally worth it. _I hoped_. Because it's hard to make somebody disappear when all eyes rest upon him, even though most people here wouldn't care too much about an outsider.

The second - and final - stage was as simple as it was brilliant. Well, it was simple. I would give the man a warning. That was it. My great plan. But he _was_ a ranger, therefore a warning should be more than enough.

My mother tugged my hand rather roughly but I refused to follow her. I couldn't. Not yet. Slipping out of her grasp with practiced ease, I stumbled back to the man once again. "Just wanna say good-bye" I cried to my mother when she called my name sharply. She never used my name. It was an unusual, _otherworldly_ name and it always drew attention.

I leaned my head back and looked up and up and up until I finally met the ranger's grey eyes again. Now that I stood directly in front of him and didn't try to climb him I realized exactly how tall he was. He would be a really good basketball player with that height. Unable to do anything else I lifted my arms like a small child demanding to be held. Thankfully he understood what I wanted - and that my dear mother would completely lose her shit if he actually took me in his arms - and bend down to my eye-level. It was the only chance I was likely going to get or that's what I thought at that time, so I exuberantly threw my arms around his neck to give him a heartfelt if somewhat one-sided hug. We both did a pretty good job of ignoring the cloud of flour surrounding us with every move I made. It's a wonder we didn't choke to death.

"You have drawn the attention of five men with grey cloaks. They do have a _unique_ way of welcoming guests in our town. Be wary of hiding in the shadows for they may not be on your side" I whispered quickly into the man's ear. I felt his muscles tense as his mind processed the words I had spoken but my mother jerked me away from him before either of us were able to exchange another word. She hoisted me up on her hip, obviously determined to ignore my sad state of dress in favor of keeping me close by her side.

Her question was spoken in an incredible soft voice as though all the tension and anger had bled away until nothing but exhaustion was left. "Why?" I looked back over my shoulder, my gaze locked on the wide eyes of a nameless ranger who dipped his head in silent acknowledgement of my message. It felt like I had known him for an eternity and yet I had never seen him before this very day. The answer slipped effortlessly from my lips and though I had spoken the words myself they would still haunt me for years to come.

"He has the right kind of eyes."

My mother faltered but only for a moment. Then she started walking again and if she walked faster than I had ever seen her carry me before nobody ever mentioned it.

Nobody mentioned a lot of things that had happened that day. And though I could end my story on this very dramatic note I would also like to point out that as memorable as my first encounter with Aragorn was, my revenge on my _darling_ brother for pushing me into the cold water and throwing flour over my head would be even _more_ memorable.

Dale didn't know it yet but he was going _down_.

* * *

This is a birthday gift for my friend and will be updated every week. Until then:

Love, Schlange


	2. Part II

**AN: **Second part of the series. Nothing involving Aragorn ever goes like expected. For starters, he is neither a rapist nor an axe-murderer. At least not until proven otherwise.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Lord of the Rings, any known characters or locations, etc.

* * *

_For Elena_

* * *

**Part II The Second**

_You always meet twice._

* * *

_Bree, around the year 3010 during the Third Age_

* * *

There was something about the ranger with the clear, grey eyes that drew me in. Maybe it was the fact that our meetings were always memorable in one way or another. Seriously. Over the years he stopped by a couple of times in Bree and like any other decent ranger he was silent, withdrawn and hidden in shadows. He came and left and if it wasn't for the gossiping old ladies around our home I probably wouldn't have even noticed. But those were the times I didn't actually meet him, so of course nothing went ever wrong _then_.

The same couldn't be said about those times we actually interacted with each other. Maybe it was a curse. Maybe it was my unique luck. Maybe it was a cosmic joke because God knows the powers above love to mess with my life. They do a fairly good job too.

At least I was a little better prepared when it happened for the second time, though not by much. In fact all that had really changed was my age and that I knew his name this time around so I didn't have to keep calling him 'stranger' in my head. Well, I knew _one_ of his names but still. It was an achievement on my part even though I was still caught completely off guard when I came face to face with him once more.

See, ever since that first time I had met Strider - because that was the name the villagers had given him after his second visit - my mother had done her very best to make sure I would never leave her side again. And I mean that literally. She didn't let me leave the house anymore, not even with an admittedly incompetent maid around. Only my brother was _sometimes_ allowed to take me out and those days were far and in between. I was always hidden away when a visitor decided to grace the town with his presence and generally kept out of the public eye whenever possible. In other words, I was a prisoner in my own home. And the shadows in my mother's eyes grew with each passing day.

Not even my father understood what was going on but as usual he trusted my mother's judgement. Dale tried to help me in every possible way but his options were limited and he had his own work to do. And so even with my brother's interventions these years between my first and second encounter with Strider turned out to be the some of the worst years of my life. I became invisible, nothing but a distant memory for the general public. A shadow in a world where only the brightest of light was seen. The loneliness was killing me slowly like poison coursing through my veins and the shadows I had once seen in my mother now grew within my own heart. But those years also taught me to survive and whom I could trust and turn to. Those years formed me, made me who I am and gave me the strength and will to survive. Besides it could have been much worse and to be honest I wouldn't have come out of it as well as I did if not for my unique way to escape my prison for a few hours every day.

As I became older mother started to relax again and slowly things turned back to what they should have been. I left the house more often and even worked at one of the Inns during the evenings. It wasn't so much about the money but about the ability to interact with people again - even though they were mostly drunk out of their mind. Of course working in a bar entailed certain risks, especially once my body decided to remind everyone that I was in fact a woman. There was a reason Dale had taught me the basics of sword fighting when we grew up. There was a reason I had signed up for self-defense classes when I was ten. Girls like me and towns like Bree just didn't mix well together.

But at fourteen years of age I was still more child than woman in appearance and rarely had to deal with any unwelcome advances. Dale's widely known skill with a blade helped too.

All in all I really enjoyed my job.

It was at the end of my usual shift when it happened. 'It' being my second encounter with Strider. Or, more precisely, the second time the fates decided that someone had to save that guy's ass and guess who drew the short stick?

I was walking home alone which was like tempting the fates no matter how you looked at it but my brother was out of town and mother had forgotten to send someone for me _again_. Dale would flip out if he ever found out. The streets were pretty much empty and the muffled laughter and loud voices from the various bars and Inns was the only sign of life in this dreary town. I've lived here since I was born but ignorant, little Bree could never compete with the other places I've seen. Some days I just wanted to run. Leave it all behind and never look back.

The sound of footsteps behind me shook me out of the pleasant daydream and I quickened my pace. I had absolutely no desire to meet another drunk out here with no other people around. Besides I might like my job but after five hours of serving beer I definitely had enough of intoxicated men for one evening. The steps behind be halted suddenly and the short moment of silence was broken by the dull sound of a body hitting the ground.

I paused.

Then I turned around slowly, half-way expecting a murderer with a giant axe standing directly behind me, ready to knock me out cold. Maybe I should cut down on the detective series. They weren't doing my imagination much good. The more sensible part of my brain searched the ground for the passed out idiot whom I had no interest in finding. Naturally it was dark and raining heavily because these kind of things never happen to you in broad daylight. That would be a sure way to kill the dramatic effect.

Thanks to the weather and my weak eyesight I could only make out an undefined, blurry shape lying a few feet away from me.

Now some people would have immediately rushed forward, either out of curiosity or because they wished to help an unknown unconscious guy. Other people would have run home as fast as they could and push the thoughts of said guy out of their minds, not caring or not wanting to care for a random idiot who would probably be fine in the morning. And cold. And wet.

But I, being the brilliant girl that I am, was standing there motionless and being completely useless while my common sense fought my conscience. On one hand it might have been an axe-murderer who tried to rape and kill me and simply slipped on a puddle on his way to catch me. On the other hand it might be some poor, helpless soul that could very well die should I leave it out here in the unforgiving weather. Not to forget that the inhabitants of Bree weren't exactly known for their helpfulness towards strangers. The question was: Could I afford the risk of saving a possible criminal? Or maybe the true question was: Could I afford the risk not to help a possible decent man?

Decision made.

_Great. Just great._

Why did common sense never win these inner battles anyway?

I sighed one of these long-suffering sighs my father always used on me when I tried to talk him into letting me train with Dale and carefully scooted closer to the unmoving body. Even up close it was too dark to make out anything more than the cloak that was covering the man's features completely. I tapped what I assumed to be his shoulder lightly with the tip of my boot. No reaction. Rapidly losing my patience I kicked him, first softly than a lot harder. Nope, still nothing.

He was either unconscious or dead. I reached for his pulse just like my first aid instructor had taught me a few months ago. His heart beat was weak but steady. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

On the plus side, I had not just touched a corpse. That would have been absolutely gross. On the negative side, I now felt obligated to get him out of the rain and ensure that he survived the night. And that meant carrying a man at least two feet taller and a lot heavier than me home and smuggling him into my room without my parents noticing. It were moments like these that made me appreciate the moral code of the people of Bree. _Every man for himself_. Because sometimes it really sucked to be a decent human being.

Looking back I have no idea how I managed all the above without being discovered but I have a sneaking suspicion that the alcohol in my father's blood and the insanity in my mother's mind had no small part in my aforementioned achievement. Damn, I was so lucky that Dale wasn't in town. He would have skinned me alive.

So, yeah, lots of stumbling around like a drunk and many fancy curse words later I had the unconscious guy exactly where I wanted him. In my bed. And didn't that sound wrong in so many ways? In my defense I didn't _exactly_ want him there, it was just the only option currently available. Besides I'm pretty sure Dale would lose his temper anyway if he found a man in my room. Whether he was on the floor or the bed would matter little.

Thankfully I had the foresight to take - more like wrestle - the heavy cloak off of the man's still figure because the material was soaked with rain, mud and other fluids I didn't dare to identify. I had never thought of myself as a particular picky girl but damn it took all my self-control to not burn the remains of said cloak immediately. To be honest the only thing stopping me was the fact that the cloth was far to wet to burn. I wanted to scrub my skin raw just from touching the thing but fortunately the more sensible part of my brain told me to get a move on and check the unconscious man for injuries. I did _not_ just ruin my favorite bed sheets for the guy to die on me _now_.

Which was easier said than done.

Because even in the dim candle light it was obvious that he wasn't just a passed-out drunk. The shame. Life would have been so much easier that way. Especially _my_ life. Instead I was stuck with a beat-up stranger, eying the bruised, sweaty skin and the red blood seeping through his tunic in various places with wariness. I was by no means a healer but this man looked like he had been run over by a truck or at least a bunch of vicious orcs - which, to be fair, was a very real possibility considering the questionable dark substance I had found _and definitely not touched_ on his sword. The few things I knew about injuries stemmed from a first aid course my mother had forced me to take back in sixth grade. _This knowledge might very well one day save your life_, she said. Somehow I don't think this was the situation she had in mind. Besides we learned things like the lateral recumbent position and which numbers to call in which case of emergency and lots of other things that weren't and never would be useful _here_.

In that moment I desperately wanted to cry. But I didn't. I hadn't cried when Dale left our home for another scouting mission a couple of weeks ago. I hadn't cried when my mother had looked me into my room yet again. I hadn't cried when Trisha had ripped my favorite book apart. I sure as hell wasn't going to cry now because of some idiotic, over-confident stranger with a death wish.

Instead I concentrated on the things I could do. Like cleaning the wounds for example. Okay, so that was the only thing I could think of but it sounded good in my head. With a new purpose in mind I gratefully set to work. Needless to say it took me a good half an hour just to figure out how to get the man's top _off_ of him without destroying the fabric completely. Which would have been pretty simple if not for the fact that I was afraid of moving him in case I aggravated the damage - It didn't occur to me that I had already pushed him around a lot just to get him to my home. Eventually I lost my patience and cut the damn thing off. He would just have to borrow one of my father's shirts or run around naked. The women around here would certainly owe me for that one. They didn't get any good eye-candy often. Or at least I assumed that the guy would probably be rather attractive if he wasn't covered in dirt and blood.

Cleaning the man up turned out to be much more difficult than I had at first anticipated and I found myself wondering when exactly that guy had last taken a bath. On second thought, I _really_ didn't want to know. It took three buckets of water to get him to resemble a human being again, though I took care not to pay too much attention to the greasy mess that must have been his hair once. No matter how disgusting it looked he could take care of that himself when he was well again.

With his torso now grime-free it was easy to see that his injuries were not as grave as I had first believed. He had a few cuts and lots of bruises, all no older than a couple of days. There was one nasty gash on his right forearm but as far as I could tell it didn't show any sign of infection. Which was good because without any useful plants at hand I would have been unable to stop it anyway. Times like these really made me miss antiseptics. And electric light. And an ER.

Quelling the childish urge to kick the wall in frustration I carefully washed each cut and bandaged the one on his arm with some fresh cloth that I had to nick from my mother's own medicine cabinet. I still had a vague idea of how to apply a pressure bandage - the name didn't leave much to imagination after all - and I think I did an admirable job, considering I didn't have much to work with either in supplies nor in skills.

Next I checked the man's breathing - at which point it occurred to me that I probably should have done that in the very beginning - but he seemed to do fine, so no harm done, right? Still, the purple color of his chest made me nervous. What if he suffered from internal bleeding? What if he had broken his ribs? For future notice, I definitely had to stop watching Grace's Anatomy. Having all those curious illnesses and sufferings in the back of my mind did not help in this situation. At all. Eventually I ended up awkwardly patting his chest up and down while silently begging that he wouldn't suddenly choke on his own blood or worse, wake up. _That_ would be an awkward conversation. With no change in his breathing pattern I felt it safe to assume that he was fine so far, or at least his upper body was.

And just like that I once again had a very uncomfortable choice to make. Because the rational part of my brain knew that I should strip the man off his trousers and check his legs and feet for injuries too. He could have a broken bone or another serious gash for all I knew. But there was also another, much less mature voice inside my mind that basically screamed "_Never in a million years am I going to undress him! That's just so _wrong_! It feels like I'm raping him or something!_" Yes, it wasn't my most brilliant moment. In the end I compromised by rolling his trousers up as far as I could and examining the fabric over the still covered parts for any sign of blood. It wasn't perfect but it would have to do.

So there I was. While a half-naked man twice my age slept in my bed. _Trisha would be so proud_.

With a sigh I busied myself with wiping the sweat from his forehead with a fresh cloth. The one I had used to clean him up was beyond saving. He had a light fever but other than washing his face every now and then I really couldn't do anything. I also couldn't sleep. Not because of the horrible weather or because of the fact that I had a possible axe murderer in my room - so far nothing had happened to prove or disprove said theory, expect maybe that he didn't have an axe - but simply because the guy was lying on my bed. There are people that can sleep anywhere and in any position if given the chance. Well, I'm not one of these people. That's why I spent the next two hours sitting on a hard chair next to my own bed feeling more tired by the second and yet unable to fall asleep.

Maybe that was a good thing because some time later that night when the surprisingly familiar looking stranger became more and more restless I was mentally and physically aware enough to notice it. His eyes flickered nervously and he murmured soft, incomprehensible words.

"Sh" I muttered, feeling completely out of my comfort zone and exchanged the cloth on his forehead with mechanic movements. It was a soothing routine I had started over the last hour or so and it helped distracting me from the overwhelming exhaustion and the niggling thought that I should know this man somehow. It was seriously annoying. His face seemed so familiar but for some reason I couldn't pin down when or where I had seen him before. It felt like the words were on the tip of my tongue and yet they couldn't have been farther out of my grasp. It made me want to hit something. Hard.

The stranger grumbled something and suddenly his eyes snapped open. To say I was unprepared was a complete understatement. But - as cliché and overused as it sounds - the moment our eyes met I felt everything snap into place. And no, I didn't suddenly realize that I was irrevocably in love with him and that he was my soul mate or whatever. Of course not. But when I saw the clear shade of grey that had haunted me for the past seven years I remembered. He was Strider. The ranger I had once warned about Sage's little gang. And I realized with startling clarity why I hadn't recognized him until now. It wasn't the fact that he had changed that had thrown me off. It was the fact that he hadn't. Yeah, his hair looked worse than I had ever seen anyone look like and his beard was a little longer but his face hadn't changed one bit. No wrinkles or greying hair. It was completely impossible - and coming from me that was really saying something - but he looked like he hadn't aged a day since I last saw him. Which was _seven_ years ago.

I had also spent the last three minutes gaping at him like some mindless idiot.

_Fantastic_.

Grey eyes stared at me. I blinked. They stared straight ahead. I blinked again. Still no further reaction. And now that I stopped mentally berating myself and actually looked at him it was easy to see that his eyes were glazed in that creepy I-am-alive-but-not-really-there-way. You know when one has fever-induced dreams or hallucinations. For a moment I was simply relieved that Strider wasn't aware enough to witness me making a fool out of myself. Then common sense set in again. This wasn't a good sign regarding his recovery, at least not that I was aware of.

I drenched the cloth in fresh water and laid it on Strider's forehead, hoping it would cool the skin down a little. Under different circumstances I would ask mother what to do and I'm sure she would have a brilliant answer for me. But under the current circumstances asking my parents for help would be more likely to end Strider's life than the fever would. As it was I immersed all the half-way clean rags I had left in the water and spread them out on his body. Then, when he started shaking from the cold, I took the wraps off and wrapped my blanket around him until he got too hot again. I don't know how often I repeated the process but it was definitely _too_ often.

Strider had closed his eyes again after a few moments but he didn't stop mumbling and got more fidgety with each passing minute. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to yell at him. I mean, I know he was ill and everything but he wasn't exactly making the situation any easier for the both of us. My parents were delusional not deaf.

In the end I did what I used to do to calm Dale down when we were younger. He would never admit it of course, but I know that he still likes it when I do it. So, why should Strider be any different, right? I softly carded through his _still horribly greasy _hair - I don't think anybody realizes just how much it took out of me to actually touch _it_ \- and started singing the refrain of a song under my breath. It was a song that had struck something inside me the moment I had first heard it a few years ago and I had not forgotten it since then.

"We can be the kings and queens of anything if we believe, it's written in the stars that shine above." Maybe a very small, vindictive part of me did this just to see how Mister Oh-so-taff-Ranger would react to something as childish as stroking his hair and singing a catchy song. Well, he calmed down. And I got blackmail material for the next forty-or-so years.

Let's just leave it at that.

"A world where you and I belong, where faith and love will keep us strong. Exactly who we are is just enough. There's a place for us." I continued well thorough the night, humming or singing whenever Strider became restless again. It was very repetitive, seeing as I couldn't remember the rest of the lyrics but finally his burning skin cooled down significantly and I was ready to drop down and sleep for a week.

The first light of the day illuminated the world by the time Strider regained his consciousness again.

Now, let me tell you why common sense generally tends to warn you away from suspiciously clothed strangers lying outside in the mud. Contrary to popular opinion it _wasn't_ the risk that you might wake up with a terrible headache only to find yourself mugged and or raped - if you woke up it all. Sure, it is a very real danger but that isn't what happened in my case. Far from it actually. But the things Strider didn't do don't change the things he did do. _Is it just me or did that make no sense at all?_

One of the moments I remember most clearly about the whole night is the instant Strider woke up. I still remember that overwhelming sense of relief when I first saw his eyes free of the glazed shine they had taken on and though I have tried many times, there are simply no words to describe it. Sadly, things get pretty blurry from there on.

I _know_ what happened, I guess. I must have brought him some bread at one point because mother confronted me about the missing food later that day. And I'm also pretty sure that I told Strider how I found him and what exactly I did to him, if only so he wouldn't draw the wrong conclusions about the state he found himself in. He probably thanked me too, it is only the polite thing to do after all. Though he certainly has a funny way of showing it.

So yeah, we most likely had a nice, interesting conversation and I bet his reaction upon waking up was absolutely hilarious. Too bad that my mind was foggy from sleep-deprivation by that time and I can only recall bits and pieces of the talk we must have had. At some point I must have fallen asleep - or maybe passed out would be a more accurate description - because the next thing I remember is waking up in an empty room with an uncomfortable crick in my neck.

Which gets me to the point I'm trying to make. See, I've always been the kind of girl who believes that doing something good is a treat in itself. Or something like that. Anyway, I took care of a hurt man and it's not like I expected him to swear an oath of loyalty towards me or to ride of into the sunset with me or some other ridiculous notion. What I _didn't_ expect however, was for him to disappear without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving me to find my bed sheets ruffled but unoccupied and stained with blood and grime. They were the only evidence that last night had not been a very convincing hallucination on my part. They were also completely ruined. Which I had to explain to my parents while the man I tried to help had run off doing god knows what. _Fucking coward_.

Later I told my parents that I had been so tired from work that I forgot to take off my dirty outer robe before literally falling into my bed. Mother was not impressed.

And honestly? Neither was I.

* * *

That's it for now. Next: Four ringwraiths, one girl and no fire. What could go wrong?

Love, Schlange


	3. Part III

**AN: **'Faint the hollow murmur rings' is a collection of six one-shots and (for now) two interludes.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Lord of the Rings, any known characters or locations, etc.

* * *

_For Elena_

* * *

**Part III The Third**

_Three's the charm._

* * *

_Weathertop, around the year 3018 during the Third Age_

* * *

The third time I met Aragorn differed in many ways from our earlier encounters. For one, I was absolutely _not_ happy to see him. I mean, there I went out of my way to help him when I really didn't have to and all I got in return was a quiet thank-you that he may have or may have not said to me while I was barely conscious? It had taken me almost _two days_ to get my room into a state that resembled the pre-ranger-invaded condition it had once been in. Of course it didn't exactly help that my mother was convinced that I was keeping something from her - which I did but that's beside the point - and suffered another bout of excessive paranoia. Or rather I suffered from it because I was the one not allowed to leave the house once again for about a year and a half. Needless to say I didn't get to work in the Prancing Pony anymore either. In other words I spend lots and lots of time sitting idly at home with nothing to do expect imagine my horrid revenge on a certain ranger should I ever meet him again. Holding a grudge is remarkable easy when you have the necessary energy to spare and I - as I have previously mentioned - had nothing else to do with myself.

Apart from my less than lukewarm feelings towards a certain ranger our third meeting was also the first one where I actually knew who exactly said ranger was. And when I say exactly I _mean_ exactly. As in Aragorn-son-of-Arathorn-known-as-Thorongil-or-Strider-called-Estel-by-the-elves-beloved-of-Arwen exactly. In my defense, thanks to my mother's unreasonable behavior I had nothing to occupy myself with except staring at the same wall for hours to no end. Which is not as exciting as it sounds. Because of that I spent as much time as possible in my _other_ life. At that point anything was better than Bree in my opinion. My best friend Trisha was a godsend during those times. She was the only one able to keep me busy and cause as much trouble as possible along the way. It was a few weeks before my fifteenth birthday as we sat on our cozy couch munching on marshmallows and discussing our favorite movies when Trisha brought the Lord of the Ring series up for the first time. Well, it was more along the lines of "Oh my god how can you not now them? You get the pizza, I get the DVDs and we're watching them right now and don't you dare argue with me!" but you get what I mean.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first introduction to the world of the Lord of the Rings - and a hyperactive girlfriend with crazily glazed eyes hungrily devouring a certain blond elf on the TV screen. Trisha took the term 'disturbing' to a whole new level.

I liked the story, really. I did. But the moment the town 'Bree' was first mentioned a nagging suspicion formed in the back of my head. It exploded into pure disbelief as the hobbits arrived in the very familiar Prancing Pony and finally bled into unadulterated shock as certain ranger made his dramatic entrance. Figuratively speaking, since he was sitting in one of the corners from the moment Frodo and Co. first entered the inn.

Just like that, I was hooked. Suffice to say, by the time I met Aragorn the next time I could quote basically the whole movie, most of the dialogues from the books and quite a few Wikipedia entries. Sure, my friends called me obsessed - although I would like to point out that I _wasn't_ the one with a wall plastered with posters of Legolas and a life-sized cardboard cut-out, thank you very much - but I ignored them with all the practice of enduring my mother's paranoia for fifteen long years. They couldn't understand, none of them. Not even Trisha. For them I was just another crazy fan, losing myself in a fictional world.

Except said world wasn't fictional. Not for me.

Middle Earth had been a part of my life long before I discovered the books of J.R.R. Tolkien. The people of Bree, rangers, the occasional hobbit, Strider … I already knew them before the movies were even made. But my friends didn't know that and I couldn't tell them. I _could_ however play the rabid fan girl to cover up my rare but unavoidable slip-ups. It certainly came in handy sometimes.

My mother wasn't pleased. In fact, she was downright furious. She even burned my books once and I had to hide the replacements at Trisha's home. On some level I understood her worry. I knew it wasn't a smart idea to mix the two worlds I had lived in separately for so long. Blurring the borders was a dangerous thing to do, not so much for the worlds but for _me_. For my sanity. I could lose touch with reality, more than I already had. Besides the documentation of events that had yet to come should not be known by somebody who could unintentionally influence said future. I knew that. I _knew_ all these things. But I couldn't stop reading. And I definitely couldn't _unread_ what I had already learned. So, all the angsty teenage drama aside, I knew who Aragorn was and more importantly I knew who he would become when I met him for the third time.

Despite my knowledge and my hostility towards him however there was still one other thing that set this encounter apart from our previous ones. And this last difference was even more damning than all the books in every existing dimension together. It was terrifying in a way that couldn't compare to anything I had ever felt before.

Because the third time I met Aragorn it wasn't a coincidence. It was _fate_. And yes, I am aware how this sounds. But you'll see what I'm talking about in a moment.

I was twenty-two by the time things were supposed to go downhill. And downhill they went. Fast. My dad had died eight years ago. His passing was - no matter how heartless it sounds - rather badly timed. I'm actually pretty sure that it was at least partly his death that triggered my mother's suddenly escalating paranoia back then and not just the dirty sheets in my room. But I digress. My mother was suffering from his death but she was coping. _More or less_. She still had father though. Looking back now I can only assume that she clung onto him with everything she had. My father became her life. All her love, all her sanity was bound to him. And when father died a few weeks before my twenty-second birthday he became her downfall.

Mother was a wreck. Dale did everything he could to help her - like he always did - but he had sworn to protect me since I was six. He _lived_ by that oath. And when mother began to lash out against me, there was never any question whom's side he was going to take. At that point of time we both knew that we could not stay in Bree for much longer. It was almost an incomprehensible thought. I had lived in this town for as long as I could remember - at least when I was in _this_ world - and though I had read much about the rest of Middle Earth the prospect of leaving all I knew behind to trust in some books that might or might not turn out to be truthful was daunting. There wasn't much of a choice though. The gathering shadows had hardened the people of Bree and my mother's insanity had made them wary of our family. It didn't help that thanks to the isolation I had been forced into for most of my life I was practically a stranger in my own hometown. And we all know how much the people of Bree love strangers.

Even so, I was still determined to stay. I wanted to wait for the hobbits arrival in the Prancing Pony because then I would know for sure if Tolkien's story was more than a mere fairy tale. I _needed_ to know that. Alas, it obviously wasn't meant to be. My mother's meltdown occurred about two weeks before the events of the books should have taken place. On the risk of sounding like a bitter brat but my family sure has great timing, doesn't she? So long, tragic, sob-story short: She killed herself.

And again, this is going to sound horribly callous and uncaring but my first thought was somewhere along the lines of 'Oh shit, what will the villagers think?'. They already believed me to be a witch as it was, and not the good sort either. Dale evidently worried about the exact same thing. He basically told me to pack whatever was necessary and flee to Minas Tirith. Okay, the part with Minas Tirith was my idea. In the case of Tolkien's work becoming reality I knew that Minas Tirith would be considerably saver than Edoras and the 'high-profile-cities' were really the only places whom's future I could predict pretty accurately. At least there I would know when the war came while staying in another village like Bree meant risking to be burnt down by one group of wild running orcs or another. The fact that I would sell my soul just to see the White City once - preferably before the orcs burned the outer rings down - because that's exactly the pathetic kind of fan girl I am played no part in my decision making. No part at all.

Anyway, I made Dale promise to meet me in the capital of Gondor - although I realized later that a _closer_ destination would have been the safer, not to mention saner choice - took as many provisions as our horse Fero could possibly carry and disappeared into the night long before anyone learned of my mother's unfortunate fate.

Now, as we've already established, Minas Tirith was an unrealistic, stupid destination. But that didn't matter much because my non-existent sense of direction made sure I would have gotten lost even if I had only walked towards the next settlement. In other words, I spent the next three weeks walking aimlessly through woods and marshes and woods and fields - and did I mention the woods? - without the slightest idea as to where I was and where I would end up. Which brings me to the third and unsettling fact about Aragorn's and my meeting: It shouldn't have been possible.

Just think about it: Middle Earth is _not_ small. There is a reason Frodo's journey took months after all. And the woods I was currently traveling trough weren't small either. They're stretching on for miles and miles to no end. Although I had no idea where I was going, so for all I know I was walking in circles all the time. But even then the probability of me accidentally stumbling over Strider in this endlessly large terrain were as close to zero as one could possibly get. Which lead me to the conclusion that our encounter was in fact fated to happen.

That being said I would like to point out that 'it was fate' is really just a pretty way of saying 'there's some super-natural power messing with your life and no matter what you do you can't escape it so you might as well just accept it'. But sure, let's call the bitch _fate_.

By the time I met Aragorn - against all odds, might I add - I was pretty much out of food so it definitely wasn't the worst time to run across a ranger. Needless to say when I say 'run across' what I really mean is 'tripping cluelessly through the forest, being grabbed from behind and suddenly having a sword on your throat'. And my mother used to wonder why I detest meeting new people.

In case you have never wandered through the woods, alone, only to be attacked by a man with a very sharp weapon, our nice little reunion went something like this: I shrieked like a banshee. It was a very loud, very short shriek. Not for lack of trying on my side of course but the hand on my mouth made it difficult to keep going._ Damn, he was fast_. What followed were some hissed questions from Strider - who spoke with a very intimidating voice, which was totally unnecessary _considering the goddamn sword on my fucking throat_ \- which I couldn't answer because of the aforementioned hand on my mouth. Not that I would have had the mental ability to say anything. After my first instinct - scream as loud as you can - had failed me so spectacular I was too busy trying to calm my racing heart down before it ended up exploding in my chest. And again I failed miserably.

Eventually Strider let me go though he was obviously still wary. Not that I could blame him. If I remember correctly all he got out of me was my name and lots of 'Please don't kill me's in various degrees of hysteria. _Well done, Carlie_. _So much for keeping a level head in a critical situation_. I guess it is safe to say that the only reason Strider didn't take action against me was my utterly pathetic appearance and of course the fact that I was a greater danger to myself than anyone else. With my non-existent weapons. I could have cried.

All in all I feel secure in the knowledge that I made a very good, sane and trustworthy third impression on the future king of Gondor and Arnor. _Fuck my life_. But anyway, don't let my sarcasm fool you. Sure, things were pretty bad but they were about to get worse. _Much_ worse.

Aragorn asked a question. I don't even know what it was anymore but most likely something along the lines of 'What the hell are you doing out here if you aren't a spy of Sauron?'. I got the distinct impression that the truth - that I had no fucking idea - wouldn't go over too well and simply stared at him like the brainless idiot I was. His grey eyes gleamed in the shallow light of the torch I had dropped when he assaulted me. They were cold and aware, a strong contrast to the last time I had met him.

A shriek shattered the oppressing silence.

The good news? Aragorn jumped about a foot in the air, which was absolutely hilarious.

The bad news? I wasn't the one doing the shrieking.

He will probably deny it until his dying day but I'm sure that the moment the ringwraiths made their expected dramatic appearance the always collected and watchful ranger completely forgot about me. He whirled around and disappeared in the undergrowth but not before taking the flaming torch I had been holding before I was so rudely attacked from where it was lying on the ground. It was a miracle I hadn't managed to burn the woods down - although the grass around the area looked suspiciously black.

Then Strider was gone. Leaving me behind while there were crazy wraiths running around. And taking my only torch. I really started to like the guy less and less the more often we met.

It was at this precise moment that I came to a shocking realization. As I have already pointed out multiple times by now it was basically impossible for me to have met Aragorn by accident. And if - as I suspected - some higher power had led to that nice little chat between old friends we shared then it was unlikely that they had went to all that trouble only for me to tell Aragorn my name. Another high-pitched cry cut through the air like a knife. It made the blooming understanding in the darkest part of my mind all the more painful. _The torch_.

For the record, my life didn't flash in front of my eyes. Instead I saw them before me, all the decisions and events that had led me to this moment. Being lost. The most unreal destination I could have possibly picked. Mother's untimely death. Had it all been part of some greater plan I didn't know about? Was I part of some chess game without knowing the rules? Right then I couldn't recall what had happened in Tolkien's books but the movie scene replayed itself in front of my inner eye again and again. I had always wondered where Aragorn had gotten that torch from. Had it been my purpose all along to be here right now, just to give the future king the weapon that would save him and his charges?

To another person this sudden insight might have brought a serene sense of relief. Wasn't it comforting in a way to know that one had not only a purpose but had also fulfilled it? Wasn't there a security in the knowledge that some things were meant to be? Well, I wasn't that other person. I didn't feel relieved. I felt cheated. Worse, I felt _used_.

Was this all I was destined to be? One of the thousands of unnamed people who intentionally or unintentionally helped the hero achieve his awesome victory? Because I had no illusions about my place in this world; if this fight was a chess game then I was a pawn. Yes, I was different but I wasn't special. I didn't have a prophecy over my head, nor some age-old heritage to live up to. I was just the girl with two lives, and both of them rather unremarkable at that. Aragorn on the other hand was the epitome of special. He was the direct heir to a throne the land of men was in desperate need of. He alone had the power to unite this fractured world and lead it against the evil that was Sauron. He was one of the truly important people of this time. Aragorn was not replaceable.

But there were many other people who gave their lives helping him, who died in his place because _he_ couldn't but _someone_ had to. And I was one of them.

Well, I hadn't died yet. 'Yet' being the deciding word. But let's be honest, the only things I had ever done that would have far reaching consequences for Middle Earth as a whole were the two - now three - instances where I helped Aragorn out in some way. And I never did anything remarkable. _Anyone_ could have done these things in my stead.

This world didn't need me.

It was a cruel thought. It was also undeniably true. Was this what I was meant to do? Saving Aragorn's ass until I died trying so he would eventually fulfill his destiny? 'Meant to be' can be such a pretty expression. But what if you aren't meant to be? What if you are invisible? The side-kick? _Replaceable_?

I felt sick. And cold. _Too_ cold, actually. Cold enough to snap out of my self-induced pity-party, at least for the moment.

Fun fact: You know how there are nine ringwraiths and yet Strider only had to heroically fight five of them at Amon Sul? I always wondered where the other four were. Well, turns out those four wraiths were actually in the nearby forest, surrounding a clueless girl whom's only useful weapon had been taken from her by a certain ranger. Lucky me. Those higher powers sure knew how to make it abundantly clear that they couldn't care less about me as long as their beloved king survived. _Bastards_.

Want to know something else? People never bother to remember the side-kick's name, be it the good or the bad one. I've always wondered why that is but the answer is actually very simple: They never live long enough to leave a mark on the world, so why bother remembering them, right?

It was really nice of my brain to try and cheer me up during those last few minutes of my life. But not even sarcasm could change the simple facts of life: There was one horse, four ringwraiths, no fire and my charming self. I did the only sensible thing I could think of: I cursed Aragorn in all the four languages I knew - very creatively, might I add. Then I fainted.

And the rest - as they say - is history.

* * *

Sorry for the late update *sheepish grin* but here it is!

Love, Schlange


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